


Morning Glory

by LiveOakWithMoss



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Elf/Human smooches and shmoop, Finrod is bad at being an elf, Fluff, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-26
Updated: 2015-05-26
Packaged: 2018-04-01 09:32:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4014643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveOakWithMoss/pseuds/LiveOakWithMoss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Finrod goes on a quest, with Bëor's help. Flowers are involved, of course.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Morning Glory

**Author's Note:**

> 0\. The second part of my Finrod/Bëor exchange with nisiedrawsstuff. While I wrote [an appalling story](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3933238) of death and destruction for the first part of our exchange, she drew a fantastically warm, happy, and delightful depiction of our two star-crossed lovers. Thank god she did; [that drawing](http://nisiedrawsstuff.tumblr.com/post/119127408297/first-part-of-a-finrod-beor-exchange-im-doing), and writing the subsequent story to accompany it, has soothed my soul (and made me laugh a lot). Hopefully this comes at all close to capturing the pure joy, fun, and love of her art.

“Well, this was a good idea.”

Finrod’s tone was uncharacteristically sarcastic as he picked his way around a bramble patch, trying to keep his sweeping robes from catching at the thorns, or the low hanging branches from grabbing at his hair. At one point, a thin gold circlet set with opals had adorned his brow; it had long since disappeared, probably down a badger set.

Behind him, Bëor held aside a bough so Finrod could duck through. “This was entirely your own idea, I’ll remind you, o lord.”

“Do you have to?” Finrod sighed like a prince, and then swore like a sailor as a thorny twig he hadn’t managed to duck reached out and snagged at the Nauglamír.

Bëor raised his eyebrows as he reached up to disentangle Finrod. “You’re going to have to teach me those ones, my Elvish isn’t good enough to recognize any of them.”

“I got them from my uncle,” said Finrod, and glared balefully at the branch. “I won’t teach you them lest your tongue shrivel in the saying of them. You are too delicate and good for such things.”

“That’s me, delicate and good, I’ve always said so. You know, it’s interesting,” said Bëor, stooping to pick up the trailing hem of Finrod’s ceremonial robes, which were in danger of landing in some deer scat. “I always thought you Elves were so beloved by nature that the very roots retreated from your steps and the trees bowed low at your passing and flowers yearned for you, and all that. These ones seem to have it out for you.”

“Vindictive things. Perhaps they object to my fashion choices.” Finrod glanced around and groaned. “Eru, we must have gotten turned around.”

 

* * *

 

They had been preparing for that night’s feast along with all the folk of Nargothrond, the great halls shining and warm; enticing smells wafting from the kitchens; everything lavishly decorated with fine wrought metals and gems and living flowers. Finrod, coming into the hall in his full regalia, gems at his throat and gold on his brow, had tilted his head critically to the side, and wondered out loud why there were no morning glories.

“They would clash with the theme,” the steward, who had been planning the affair for months, hastened to tell him, but Finrod had shaken his head decisively.

“Nonsense. Everything looks better for some morning glories. Besides, they’re my favorites.”

“But my lord, we have not gathered any – ”

“Then I shall. There are some growing at the base of a tree by the west gate, I will go get them myself.”

He had met Bëor on the way, and after expressing his appreciation for Bëor’s handsome festival furs (an appreciation that left Bëor with slightly mussed hair and a wide grin), he had tugged him along to assist in the gathering of morning glories.

But when they reached the west gate, there were none to be found.

“Perhaps it was the east gate,” Finrod had mused, but when they made it across to the other side, there were none to be found there, either.

“Very well,” said Finrod, staunchly. “There are some growing in a nearby meadow if I remember correctly. They should be easy enough to find.”

But they hadn’t been.

 

* * *

 

As time wore on, Bëor thought more and more that he should reevaluate his assumption of all Elves being innately attuned nature. True, birds came fluttering at the sound of Finrod’s voice, but fled when he got stuck on a shrub and turned the air blue with his cursing. Gentle deer and small forest creatures crept close, recognizing the light in Finrod’s eyes and the music of his voice, and then shrank back into the shadows when he stumbled on his trailing sleeves and nearly went flying.

When they came to a stream, over which there were only a few, slippery rocks by which to cross, Finrod took one look at the swift water, then down at his long, already bedraggled robes, and let out a despairing noise. He cast himself dramatically down on the bank – but carefully, so as not to land in mud. At last, Bëor could restrain himself no longer, and burst out laughing.

“I am glad you find this amusing.”

“You are the worst Elf I have ever seen,” Bëor said, sitting beside Finrod and putting an arm around him. “All nature seems to rise up against you.”

“Worst Elf ever?” mumbled Finrod. “I should write my cousins, they will be delighted – or perhaps offended – that I have usurped their title.”

“We are going to be late for the feast.”

“I know.”

“You have a grass stain on your – ”

“I know.”

Bëor squeezed Finrod’s shoulders comfortingly, as the sun came out from behind a cloud and cast the riverbank in shining light. Several birds alighted in a nearby tree to peer quizzically at Finrod, who had his head in his hands, and some of the animals that had hidden before crept out to watch.

“You know,” said Bëor at last, “I think I recognize that patch of forest up there. If we cross the stream, I think the path back to the main gates is pretty easy.”

“Given my luck,” said Finrod, into his hands, “I shall fall face first into the stream in the process.”

“That’s true,” Bëor agreed. “Going by the rest of the day, the odds of you slipping into the drink are high.” He cast his glance around and, seeing something, smiled. He rested his face close to Finrod’s head and murmured against his shining, intricately braided hair, “Guess what?”

“What?”

“There are flowers on this bank.” He pressed a kiss to Finrod’s temple.

Finrod raised his head slightly. “What kind?”

“Pink ‘uns.”

“Ooh, how taxonomically exact.”

Bëor ignored him and unwound his arm from Finrod’s shoulders. Then he descended the bank carefully, and gathered up as many of the pink flowers as he could carry. Finrod watched him, a new light in his eyes despite his weariness, affection in every line of his face. Bëor returned to Finrod’s side and began to delicately tuck the flowers into Finrod’s hair until they bedecked him like a crown, or a rather gaudy garland.

“Not as nice as you would have done it,” he said, “but flowers suit you better than gold.”

Finrod tipped his bright head back, smiling, and Bëor kissed him.

“Now,” he said, getting to his feet and holding out his hand, “I have a plan to get you back to the feast before it is over. Without,” he added, as he pulled Finrod upright, “you tripping into the river.”

“And how’s that?”

Bëor smiled broadly, and caught Finrod around the waist. He kissed him once more, for luck, and then swept him into his arms, carefully keeping his trailing robes tucked up and away from the ground. “I shall carry you, my lord.”

“Oh no.” Finrod looked at him severely, an expression that was undermined by how he twined his arms around Bëor’s neck. “This is far too undignified, and ridiculous to boot. I am quite capable of walking. I have walked between continents, for Eru’s sake.”

“Can’t be getting your fancy robes wet,” said Bëor blithely, setting down the bank to where the first of the stones that would make for his crossing could be found.

“I am honestly not so fastidious. And I am a head taller than you, it must be awkward to carry me. Please, I am more than ab – ”

“This is more fun,” said Bëor, and set off across the stream.

“You’re right at that,” said Finrod, with cheerful resignation, and kissed the tip of Bëor’s nose right in the middle of the stream, nearly causing him to overbalance and send them both into the water. “Next time,” he murmured into Bëor’s ear, nuzzling against the roughness of his beard, “I shall carry you. It’s only fair.”

“And what a picture we will make.” Bëor set foot on the far bank, but seemed reluctant to let go of Finrod. Finrod kept his arms looped around Bëor’s neck and watched him patiently, a fond smile on his lips as Bëor looked over his shoulder. “Wave good bye to your little friends.”

“My little whats?” Finrod turned his head, and saw the birds, small animals, and deer watching fascinated from the far side of the river. “Oh, for – Don’t you all have better things to do? Don’t we have enough hunters in these woods?” But his voice held more laughter than annoyance. “Ah, well. I have made it across without drowning, or staining my robes, which would be even worse, Valar forefend, so you may set me down now.”

“No.” Bëor turned and set off into the woods, back towards Nargothrond.

“No?” echoed Finrod, tugging playfully at Bëor’s hair.

“No,” said Bëor, and adjusted his grip so that Finrod chuckled and leaned against his chest. “No, I think I shall carry you a while longer.” Finrod rested his head on Bëor’s shoulder, and Bëor felt more content than if he had consumed a thousand feasts. “I would carry you for as long as I could, my love.”


End file.
